You have woken the witch that lives deep inside me.
You have removed the slumber chains from the giant of old.
You have handed me a box of matches and no chaperone
And a world made of lies and polyester.
You have barked up the wrong bitch.
I have shucked off the good, southern lady’s cloak,
Of the homecoming court, the cheerleader,
The preacher’s daughter, hands gentled in her lap.
They tied it at my neck with a bow, a Gordian girl-knot,
When I was young and bossy and sure-footed
“For protection,” they said.
Whose protection? I wondered.
I have sent that shit out to the dry cleaners
I will not pick it up
They can sell it for a profit from a rack on the street.
From now on,
I’m exposing the raw pink edges of my true skin to the sun.
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